


In death's other kingdom

by lanyon



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Norse Mythology
Genre: Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One god's apocalypse is another god's whimper. (In which Ragnarök gives Zeus a mild headache.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In death's other kingdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/gifts).



> For Del, who wanted one pantheon dealing with the apocalypse of another. The thousand word limit was my own additional challenge.  
> Title from TS Eliot

The Age of Iron has lingered, interminable, but Zeus is in no rush to end this world. Hesiod undersold it, this age of dissolution, and what is a millennium between friends? 

.

Persephone’s voicemail is full. It is the height of summer and flowers and trees grow up and roots grow down to choke dead throats and bind dead wrists. The welfare of the dead is her husband’s concern until the season turns. Her voicemail is full. It is most irregular. 

She walks through Central Park and hears it. Drip-drip-drip. 

It’s not raining. Nothing has sprung a leak. Cerebrus’ laughing mouths aren’t drooling. 

Drip-drip-drip. 

None of the joggers are sweating excessively.

Drip-drip-drip. 

There is a patch of dead and blackened marigolds, just off the path. Hateful, poisonous mortals hatefully poisoning every good thing. 

There is a hiss and a muttered apology and the earth rumbles. Some Titan with indigestion, perhaps. There is a roll of thunder in the distance, but no lightning. 

Her father must be indisposed, or distracted. 

.

Who knew that the East Village would be so attractive to the returned dead? Hades (the place, not the dyspeptic god) is belching out heroes and villains at an alarming rate. 

This is no approved apocalypse.

.

Zeus rarely descends. A penthouse overlooking Central Park is no Olympus but it will serve. A message arrives from the doorman. 

Vandalism, overnight. Red paint, like blood, splashed all over the ground floor windows and dripping from the awning overhanging the revolving doors. It is unlikely to be one of his children; they are petty enough, certainly, but they paint in considerably broader strokes. They would have used real blood, too. 

"Clean it off, Vanya," he says, dismissive and uninterested. It likely means nothing. 

.

Did you know that there is a copse of laurels in a discreet corner of Central Park? 

Better call it a corpse, really.

Apollo pays his respects, from time to time. (He didn't mean it; doesn't mean it.)

 

. 

Calliope has summoned so many of the pantheon. Her sisters have swayed their hips, and they have spun their tales, and they have crooned smoky jazz numbers. Theirs is the inspiration, like the many threads of the Fates, that draws everyone home. 

It is Columbia University. The seats are raked and the lights overhead are harsh. They do nothing for Aphrodite's skin tone, or Hephaestus' bad temper, as he blinks like a mole. He may be more thunderous than Zeus, who did descend today. It was Terpsichore's thighs, that tempted him down, or Erato, whose way with words is invariably to his tastes.

"They can't," says Ares, outraged. "It's not even _their_ word. They can't just- _take_ it."

"Appropriate it," says Hephaestus, bored already. "I would have thought you'd enjoy the inevitable bloodshed."

"Look around the world," hisses Ares. "It's _sodden_ with blood. Maybe it is time to wind it up, Zeus."

Zeus tears his gaze away from Persephone's pomegranate-pink lips. "But we're having such a good time."

“Speak for yourself,” says Aphrodite. “Speak for your bloody self.” She stands up and she is not so radiant (not under these harsh lights). “My boys and I have our work cut out for us.”

(Eros, Anteros, Priapus and the boys are in the East Village, with the tattoo artists and the boutique shops and the raised dead. Sometimes, they ascend the Empire State Building, or the Chrysler, and cling on for dear life and dear love. They have their work cut out for them.)

.

Something has sprung a leak. Poseidon has nothing to do with it and Hades says that his rivers are right where he left them. The subway is submerged. The advisories are endless. 

They say it is the same, all over the world; the London Underground, Моско́вский метрополите́н and the Métro de Paris are sunk and the Maldives and Venice and more have disappeared. There are storms, like disaster movies, but they cannot be outrun or outsmarted. 

It is most irregular, says Triton. 

It is global warming, says Amphitrite.

It isn’t me, says Zeus.

No one ever expects the Norse imposition.

.

Typhon’s thighs are not what one would call shapely but he likes to think he’d miss something the size of Jörmungandr.

(Likewise, Tartarus might miss something the size of Typhon.)

.

Zeus has a tension headache. It’s brought on by storms and other people’s calamities. 

There are two grubby men standing in front of him, tall like the legends of giants. One is blonde and hairy and bristles like a disgruntled lion and the other is his dark shadow, silent and bloodstained. 

“I am Thor,” says one. The other says nothing. 

“The All-Father is dead,” says Thor. “My brother Víðarr has killed the wolf.” The second nods. 

“The All-Father?” asks Zeus. “He is not my father.” He turns, to face the window, to look down over Manhattan, a patchwork of glistening, neon stitches. “And you are not my sons. Though I do have many, it is true.” He has filing cabinets and temples and cemeteries full of sons and daughters, divine and not-so-godly. 

“You are a god of storms,” Thor says. He sounds desperate. “And we are grown weak-” 

“We are kin?” 

“We are _gods_ both, of lightning,” says Thor. His lips look cracked and dry beneath his unkempt beard. 

“Are you a god?” asks Zeus. “Really?” He looks Thor up and down, and Víðarr, too. 

The storm outside is all Zeus’ doing now. Thor’s eyes grow wide. “How are you-?”

“We do not all need hammers,” says Zeus. “The important thing is that you believe in yourself.”

Zeus has never lacked for self-belief. It is the sustenance of gods, these days. 

.

There is a meeting in Central Park, of bedraggled gods, survivors of an unchanged world.

Persephone’s voicemail is still full. Confusion will do that to a pantheon watching children-god at play (and not even putting their toys away). 

There are nine bloody steps by Eagles and Prey. They are an unsightly, unseemly curiosity. 

.

One god’s apocalypse is another god’s whimper.


End file.
